This is how it is
by MildredandBobbin
Summary: Sherlock leans forward and presses his lips to John's mouth, and perhaps this has been coming for a while, because this shouldn't feel as comfortable or simple as it does. Developing relationship, first times. Ambiguous sexuality/possibly asexual!Sherlock, straight!John.


**Title:** This is how it is.  
**Author:** Mildredandbobbin  
**Characters/Pairings:** Sherlock/John  
**Rating:** R  
**Word count:**3674  
**Warnings, kinks and contents:** m/m sexy times, low level violence, coarse language  
**Summary:** Sherlock leans forward and presses his lips to John's mouth, and perhaps this has been coming for a while, because this shouldn't feel as comfortable or simple as it does. Ambiguous sexuality/possibly asexual!Sherlock, straight!John.  
**Beta** Tsylvestris - thanks so much!  
**Authors Note:** Written for draloreshimare/bachin221b in the Holmestice fanworks exchange Dec 2012.

**This is how it is**

John is comfortable. He has his spot on the sofa just right and the fire is crackling in the hearth and the telly is on (but low) and his book isn't awful. Sherlock is beside him, just thinking, one long leg butting up against John's knee, head leaning against the back of the sofa five inches from John's. It's companionable. In moments like these he can forget that Sherlock ever wasn't here, or that there was ever a time that he didn't know Sherlock Holmes existed.

He makes a small sound of contentment and Sherlock's eyes flicker towards his. John gives him a fond smile and the corner of Sherlock's mouth turns up. He reaches out and closes his hand over John's. Oh. John's brow crinkles and he tilts his head, considering Sherlock. He parts his lips to say…he's not sure…but Sherlock rolls his head towards him, turning the five inches to two. There is a pause: John is suddenly caught by Sherlock's gaze. Pinned. He hears his heart beat in his ears, once, twice, and then, just like that, Sherlock leans forward and presses his lips to John's mouth.

For a moment, everything is still.

And then in a breath, Sherlock draws back and so does John. They stare at each other. Sherlock's cheeks are pink and he looks…uncertain. And John's gaze flickers down to his lips, those lips. And this, perhaps this has been coming for a while, creeping up on John, because this shouldn't feel as comfortable or simple as it does. Fuck it, he thinks, and closes the distance between them.

Sherlock's lips are indeed soft and full and John wonders when he noted that, but he must have done, to now have it confirmed. He parts his own lips, grazes them against Sherlock's, and it's all warm breath and the barest hint of tongue and it's just a bit chaste, but it feels…nice – like a cozy evening in, half watching the telly, half reading a book. They kiss, once, twice more, then they both pull back and John lets out a huff of laughter and rubs at his scalp with the hand Sherlock isn't holding. He glances sideways at Sherlock who is looking bemused and is also not quite (but is) looking at him.

"All right then," says John.

And Sherlock has a small smile as he looks down. He squeezes John's hand once then lets go and bounces off the sofa, picking up his violin and retreating to his armchair.

John breathes a laugh again, bemused himself and sits for a moment before picking up his book.

Well.

And then Sherlock starts to play and it's all fine.

* * *

Sherlock has a new habit of taking John's hand in his. He rubs his thumb casually against John's and his long fingers flex and curl. John squeezes back before letting go. This is not how people in John's circle of straight, forty-ish men usually behave with their mates, but then nothing about being part of Sherlock's universe is usual and John stopped questioning his involvement in _that_a long time ago.

Besides, there is also the kissing. Oh not on the lips, not since that first kiss, that evening. No, Sherlock will bestow a kiss to John's hand while he has it entrapped. He'll press his lips to the top of John's head in passing, or drop a kiss on his shoulder as they lounge next to each other, hands entwined, watching nothing much at all on the telly. And John finds it's easy to forget himself, and do it as well: a peck on Sherlock's forehead as John hands him his tea, a kiss against the back of his head when he stays up too late fiddling around with who the bloody hell knows what. But John is more of the patting type: a pat on the shoulder as he walks past; a hand on Sherlock's upper arm, on the small of his back; a pat on Sherlock's thigh before John gets up to fetch some tea. It feels natural to show affection like this and John decides to just accept that it's simply how they are now.

* * *

John has a date, the first date in over six months. A date with an actual woman, with the prospect of actual sex dangling tantalisingly in front of John's face. When Diane asked him, he didn't hesitate to say yes.

Sherlock is in a temper as John gets ready to meet her.

"It's just a date, Sherlock. I'm not getting married," says John as he hunts in the kitchen for his keys.

"Again."

Low blow, but John takes a deep breath and decides to ignore it. They haven't had a row about Mary for over a year now and John intends to keep it that way. Actually, an evening out, without Sherlock for a change, might be nice.

"Right. Well. There's leftovers in the fridge if you're hungry, or order in for something."

Sherlock looms near the kitchen door and doesn't answer. He watches John with a baleful expression that reminds John of a resentful cat.

"Sex, Sherlock. Some of us quite fancy it."

Sherlock makes a sound of disgust and storms off before returning almost immediately. "Why?" he demands.

John rubs his eyes. "It feels pretty bloody good, that's why and I haven't had any for–" he stops, frowning, trying to work it out: over a year and a half, thinking through the random, desperate encounters he'd had after Mary's death, the last one – the accountant he'd met through Mike – Jill, that was it – he stops his train of thought abruptly. Not since Sherlock returned. Two years, two months. "Right, well, not that it matters anyway." He pulls on his coat and makes the mistake of glancing at Sherlock.

Sherlock crosses the room and in one swoop, grips John's face and kisses him, thoroughly, with a desperate urgency. It makes John's insides curl and his eyes flutter shut as he holds onto Sherlock's suit jacket and returns it, his lips parting, hot breath, the taste of Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock draws back just as John's knees threaten to buckle. He fixes him with a fierce glare, abruptly steps away and stalks off.

John sags against the door for a moment, thoroughly at a loss. He looks at the time. He swallows and wipes his mouth. Then with a sigh he takes off his coat, hangs it up, calls Diane with a weak excuse and an ineffectual apology, and then goes and sits on the sofa and turns on the telly.

Sherlock is perched on his armchair, knees drawn up under his chin, arms wrapped around his legs. After a while he unfolds and relocates: drapes himself over the spare bit of the sofa and lays his head in John's lap. John smiles ruefully and puts his right arm across Sherlock's chest and runs his other hand absently through dark curls and tangles. He wonders, idly, what he'd do if Sherlock offered to go down on him – if he'd get an erection, if he could keep it up. After a bit, he takes himself and that thought up to bed and leaves Sherlock lying downstairs on the sofa.

* * *

John is tied to a chair. He's had a gun to his head and someone's threatened his knees with a sledgehammer. Adrenaline is coursing through his veins well before Sherlock finds him, knocks out the one with the gun, unties him, and then nearly gets brained by a sledgehammer. John can be quick on his feet and even quicker on the draw and the sledgehammer clatters to the floor along with the other assailant, screaming now, a bullet in his shoulder.

The police arrive and it's confusion for a while and John is wrapped in a shock blanket and then Sherlock is beside him, slipping his hand under the blanket to find John's and holding it tight and looking at him with such intensity that it makes John's heart pound.

They stumble through the door to 221 Baker Street and make it upstairs to their flat before they fall on each other, mouths smashed together, tasting, pulling each other close, gripping tight, tight. John realises that his arousal might have something to do with adrenaline but it has everything to do with Sherlock Holmes. And Sherlock slides his knee between John's and presses his thigh against John's hard-on and rocks against him in such a way that John groans against his mouth.

Sherlock stills and pulls back and his cheeks and lips are flushed and his eyes are wide as he drinks in John's face. He swallows as his hand falls to John's crotch. "Let me," he asks, voice rough.

It is John's turn to swallow and he nods, once, and Sherlock presses his forehead to John's shoulder and John presses his hips into Sherlock's fingers as they work open his fly, tug at the fabric of his shorts and then wrap around him. He _is_ hard and that doesn't change as Sherlock strokes him firmly then sinks to his knees and takes him in his mouth. John holds onto Sherlock's shoulder, twines his fingers through dark curls and just breathes. It feels too good, _Sherlock_ feels too good, and part of John's brain is saying, _yes, at last_, but he can't remember waiting for this. By the end, Sherlock is simply holding him, hand tight on his hip, other hand holding his cock fast as John thrusts into Sherlock's waiting mouth, eyes dark and wide and fixed on John's. John manages a warning but Sherlock holds him in place, holds him there in his mouth, and John trembles as he comes.

Sherlock spits in the sink and then turns, wiping at his mouth, and John grabs his wrist and pulls him closer, kissing away the taste. His hand drops to the front of Sherlock's trousers but Sherlock grips his wrist, stops him.

John pulls back, searching Sherlock's face. "You sure? I don't mind returning the favour."

Sherlock shakes his head and ducks it against John's neck and half laughs. "It's…fine. I have…already." And John slides his hand up around Sherlock's back and holds him close and lets out a huff of fond laughter as he kisses the curve of his throat. Sherlock pulls back.

"Let me change, then I'll make tea." John blinks in amazement and Sherlock looks affronted. "You were kidnapped, assaulted, and threatened with death. Tea is the least I can do."

John shakes his head. "How about I make tea and you get changed."

He makes the tea and some toast for good measure and he sits at the kitchen table and as he eats, he marvels that only five minutes earlier, Sherlock was on his knees.

Sherlock emerges in his pyjamas and sits opposite John, mug of tea in hand, eating toast off John's plate.

They look at each other and grin and Sherlock ducks his head again, oddly bashful. John nudges his foot with his toe.

"Brilliant," he says.

Sherlock glances up.

"_That_was brilliant," says John. He smirks. "Rescuing me wasn't too bad either."

Sherlock has a faint flush across his cheeks and he looks pleased. "I think we're fairly even on that score. Good job you used Harris's gun and only wounded Watt: clearly self-defence, less paperwork."

John laughs. "Yeah, that was exactly what I was thinking when I did it," he says dryly.

Sherlock looks amused and pokes John back with his toe. "You need to rest."

"So do you."

"I'll come with you."

It is John's turn to duck his head. He nods. "All right. But my bed; yours is a pigsty."

"Oh, your bed is terrible."

"How do you even know that?"

Sherlock avoids his eyes and the question. "My bed," he says firmly.

John stands and comes round. He reaches out a hand. "Coming then?"

* * *

Sex isn't something they do unless its post-case and their veins are pumping with adrenaline and they're high on their own daring and cleverness. It's not because John doesn't like it, it's just he isn't comfortable initiating it ordinarily – as if it's something they do all the time, as if they're a couple living together instead of two friends who have crossed so many boundaries that platonic doesn't even come into it. Sherlock doesn't either, so they don't.

Sherlock is still impossibly infuriating at times, and just because they sleep in the same bed most nights and snog and occasionally fuck against the wall doesn't mean that living with Sherlock is any easier. He still goes for days without talking, snaps, flies into rages and sinks into pitiless despair when he's bored. John has to go off by himself sometimes just to stay sane, and when he comes back, usually Sherlock curls around him and sticks to him like glue in his form of an apology.

* * *

John wakes with a morning stiffy. He had gone to bed alone, upstairs, because Sherlock was up late composing, but now he has company. Sherlock is lying beside him, watching him curiously. John rolls onto his stomach to hide his erection. He smiles fondly, sleepily at Sherlock despite the blush that threatens his cheeks.

"Did you sleep at all?" he asks.

"A bit. You didn't hear me come in."

"Mm, no. Thanks for not waking me."

Sherlock stretches beside him. "Do you want me to help with that?" he asks, indicating John's lower half.

John feels his face heat. It's not an unwelcome thought. "Oh, um, do you want to?"

"I wouldn't have offered otherwise."

John is not about to throw away an offer of morning sex with a person he finds disturbingly attractive. "All right, yeah." And he rolls over and grabs the lube from his bedside table and turn back towards Sherlock.

Sherlock leans forward and kisses him. John sinks into it, letting arousal curl through him. Sherlock reaches for John's pyjama bottoms and tugs them down, glides his fingers over John's cock. John's ears burn. Without the post-case high he feels exposed, open to Sherlock's scrutiny. Sherlock kisses him though, and John can go with this. He presses into Sherlock's hand and runs his own hand down over Sherlock's hip, sliding under his pyjama trousers.

John pauses. Sherlock is soft. He strokes a little, tentatively, then stops, his own erection suddenly flagging. He pulls back. Sherlock frowns.

"You're not in the mood?" John asks.

"John…don't."

John looks into Sherlock's eyes and sees the resignation, sees a hint of something that makes John's heart sink and wants to kiss it away.

"It's fine," he says quickly. "It is. We'll do what you're comfortable with." He put his hand safely on Sherlock's waist and leans forward to kiss him. "Tell me if you'd like me to touch you."

He'd never asked before – always assumed, with Sherlock bucking against his hand or sliding into his mouth, that he liked sex, sex with _him_, sex with blokes. But that had been post-case. They'd never actually talked about sexual orientation or preferences. Maybe it's asexuality or a low sex drive or maybe Sherlock is as straight as John is, and just sex, normal couple sex, with a bloke isn't much of a turn on.

"John," sighs Sherlock. And John realises he has gone completely soft now too. He rolls onto his back.

"Maybe this isn't going to work. Should we call Lestrade and see if he can talk us through a murder?" John shoots a grin at Sherlock, who groans but quirks a smile back. John, though, feels the need to soothe so he leans forward and kisses Sherlock again, and there's something in the accidental brush of cotton against skin and warm lips and roving hands that re-ignites his libido, and this time when Sherlock's hand closes around his cock, John doesn't let himself think about it.

The slick-slide-slick of lube and palm and heated flesh, warm mouth against his and bony knee in his thigh take John into that blissful white-noise place and when he comes down, Sherlock's eyes are dark and his lips are parted and he is panting.

"Now…John," he says urgently, and John complies, sliding down the bed and taking Sherlock in his mouth. He's hard, properly, and John finds that he likes doing this to Sherlock more than he thought he would. Something about undoing him, making him curse and buck and moan and look at John and kiss him after, as if he's magnificent.

And this _after_, this is different to their usual post-case crashes, quieter. A sense of achievement overlays both of them and they lie on top of each other, sated but giggly and euphoric, and after a while of lazy kisses John thinks that they will do this again.

* * *

Cynthia is slightly younger than him, and pretty. She's John's type. He can't help but flirt and when she suggests coffee, for a moment 'yes' is on the tip of his tongue, but then he shakes his head; no. Nothing has been said – between him and Sherlock – there isn't an understanding, and Sherlock would scoff and ridicule him for 'sentiment' if John ever asked, but it is there, what they have, and it's something. More than something.

Her eyebrows arch and John blushes.

"I've got a partner," he explains.

"Oh. She's a lucky woman," Cynthia says.

John almost allows the assumption to slip by, but then, surprising himself, he corrects her. "'He', actually; my partner's male."

She blinks and then sighs tragically, voicing the cliché about the good ones always being gay, and John is _tempted_ to suggest that if she'd been a decade earlier, this good one would have been very available.

* * *

Christmas comes, the third Christmas since Sherlock came back from the dead. They have pre-Christmas drinks with the usual suspects: Molly, Mrs Hudson, Greg, Angelo, Mike.

For all that goes on behind closed doors at 221B Baker Street, and for all that half the Met assumed long ago that something was going on behind closed doors, Sherlock and John's _actual_situation isn't something they've broadcast. On a case, it's strictly business; and if Sherlock manhandles John more than anyone else, well, he's always done that; and if he sometimes grabs John's hand to drag him off somewhere, well, it's not unusual. Still, they haven't exactly made this – whatever this is – public knowledge. And it's really no one's business if John sometimes can't help wrapping his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and kissing the top of his head when he's lost inside his Mind Palace. It's certainly no one's business if Sherlock likes to suck on the inside of John's thigh until there's a lovely purple bruise there that no one knows about but them. And it's hardly anyone's business at all if John has discovered that there's nothing more breathtaking than the sight of Sherlock's nude form, draped across his bed.

So when Sherlock finishes playing Good King Wenceslas on his violin and slips his arm around John's waist to watch Mrs Hudson open the Christmas present they gave her, they don't even think about it, but everyone else takes note.

Then Mrs Hudson gives them a sly smile and John suddenly realises that Molly and Greg and Mike are staring at them and Angelo is _beaming_at them. He coughs and glances at Sherlock, who frowns at him before his eyes widen and he draws his hand back and steps away. John blushes but he has faced roadside bombers and green-on-blue attacks and that was before returning to London and he is no coward. He reaches out and takes Sherlock's hand and goes back to sipping his eggnog.

"So when did this happen, then?" Greg asks, not one to let this sort of thing pass without comment (and probably thinking of the office pool).

John shrugs. "No idea. Do you remember, Sherlock?"

Sherlock frowns again. "When did what happen?"

"You two, getting together," says Greg.

"We've always been together; what are you talking about?" says Sherlock, and John has to bow his head to hide his grin and he squeezes Sherlock's hand.

That explains a lot.

Later, after everyone has gone, John is opposite Sherlock in front of the fire. Their feet touch and they just sit, companionably, picking up conversation after long stretches of silence.

"I love you, you know," John says after one such silence, rubbing Sherlock's sock-clad foot with his own. He expects an 'obvious' or 'sentiment' from Sherlock in response, but he doesn't care, he wants to say it. It's been waiting to be said for a while.

"I do, too – love you. Always, John," says Sherlock instead. He rubs the sole of his foot against the top of John's and looks fondly at him.

John hums softly and sips his drink and returns Sherlock's gaze. He is happy, and life with Sherlock might be nothing like the life he thought he'd end up in, but this, this is exactly what he needs and everything he wants.

The fire crackles and John drains his glass and sets it down. He gets to his feet and crosses the two steps to Sherlock and holds out his hand to him. "Come to bed?"

Sherlock nods and takes his hand, rising to his feet. He pulls John to him and tucks his face into the crook of John's neck. John settles into his embrace, lifts one hand to the nape of Sherlock's neck, places the other about his waist. Sherlock hums a few bars of something classical and they sway together. Sherlock raises his head and John turns and they meet each other halfway in a kiss, slow and tender. Sherlock sighs and it is a happy sound. Their eyes meet and John tilts his head towards the bedroom in question. Sherlock nods and John takes his hand and leads him there.

John and Sherlock, together. And that's how it is.

The End.


End file.
